


Feel It In My Bones

by acaelousqueadcentrum



Series: Radioactive [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-19 01:03:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5950333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaelousqueadcentrum/pseuds/acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompts, head canons, and short fics for Clarke & Lexa</p><p>{Season 3- }</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keeping the Peace

[[Title source](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJJZ9Ym6ekc)]

It's gentler than she thought it would be.

_/ Not that she thought about it. Not once. Not ever. Not during the long, cold nights in the woods. Not her mind and body joining the long list of things that have betrayed her. /_

She's thought about it.

_/ Often. Her heart, the biggest betrayal of them all. On the nights she doesn't dream of ghosts--an entire army of them--her heart fills her mind with thoughts of what might have been._

_Honestly, she's no longer sure which hurts the most. /_

It starts with a kiss.

It starts with a hope.

It starts with a bow and a promise and an outstretched hand.

_/ She's reaching for Lexa before she realizes it. Before she truly understands what she's doing, what Lexa's doing._

_Because when it sinks in, when she registers Lexa on her knees before her, that soft voice steady as she makes her sacred, binding vow, there's something in Clarke that wants to make her stop. To keep Lexa from finishing, to pull her up off her knees and make her undo this bond she's just built between them._

_Because once it's done, Clarke knows, it's unbreakable. Their lives--both their lives--will be forever defined by this secret moment, this declaration._

_It will be the end of them. For better or for worse, they will rise and fall together._

_As Lexa rises, power and beauty and something else that tugs at the strings of Clarke's heart, she wonders about fate and destiny and the inevitability of fighting a war you've already lost. /_

Lexa kisses her--delicate, like she's asking for permission--and it brings tears to her eyes.

She's never felt beautiful, not like this.

But Lexa kisses her like it has nothing to do with her corn-silk hair or her ocean-blue eyes. Lexa kisses her and Clarke feels beautiful from the inside out.

Lexa kisses her and Clarke feels the darkness fade away--just for a moment, just long enough to remember what it felt like to be innocent and free and young, so young.

Lexa kisses her and Clarke cries and honestly, she's not sure whether they're tears of thanks or forgiveness.

In the end, though, it doesn't matter.

Because Lexa kisses her, and Clarke kisses her back, and it's impossibly sweet and everything she didn't think she deserved to feel anymore.

_/ Niylah is need, not want. Niylah is the tip of the match and her touch sets Clarke on fire._

_Niylah is how Clarke remembers that she's alive, a reminder that she lives and breathes and bleeds._

_Niylah is the hope that one day, Clarke will allow herself to feel again. /_

Lexa's hands on her hips and Lexa's tongue in her mouth and any fears Clarke has about the future slip away.

She's naked and laying on a bed covered in animal furs, and the girl from the Ark who never quite knew where she belonged is no more.

Now, she is Clarke.

Now, she is The Girl Who Lived.

She is Sky Princess and savior and when her people were in need of it she was Death itself for them.

Now she is everything, everyone.

And Lexa, Lexa understands.

Lexa knows.

_/ Turns out centuries of Earth writers were wrong._

_Anger isn't red and hot. Anger isn't a fire that licks and spits at your skin._

_Anger is ice and cold. Anger is the thing that numbs the wounds, the frozen river Lethe that twines itself around your aching body._

_To Clarke, it's a comfort. Familiar._

_To Clarke, it feels like home. /_

She gasps as Lexa enters her, and suddenly the wet heat over her center is gone as the dark-haired woman lifts her head.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, even quieter than before.

And Clarke is torn. Because in the soft glow of flickering candles, Lexa licks at her bottom lip, and the blonde sees the sheen there, the tell-tale sign of her own pleasure.

But this is a night of new beginnings.

This is a night of new chances.

For each of them.

It's the only way to survive the chaos the morning will surely bring.

"No," Clarke says, and reaches for Lexa, takes the Grounder's hand to pull her up once more. She kisses her, and shifts, bringing a thigh up to rest between Lexa's warm, powerful thighs.

"Together," she whispers, and kisses her again.

_/ It's a start. /_


	2. A Simple Kind of Man

He's six breaths old when you hold him for the first time, and it frightens you, how impossibly breakable he is. How incredibly harsh this world is.

You know it will break him someday. Already, you know this. You just hope you have enough time to teach him the things he needs to know. The importance of strength and the value of weakness. How to be firm and when to be gentle. How to lead and how to follow.

How live for his people and still, how to never forget himself.

This beautiful boy, this precious, perfect gift. Hair like fine cornsilk, the most delicate nose you've ever seen. Lips stained berry-red, and eyes almost too light to even call blue.

You love him immediately--you've loved him from the start, but it's different now, holding him in your arms, seeing his tiny face. You love him the same way you love his mother, in a way that feels infinite, like there's no limit to the depth and breadth of your heart.

Red and squalling, he entered the world through your pain, through your blood. Your mate at your feet, and the healers--your mother--at your side. You fought and you struggled and you breathed him into being. And with one, last, earthshaking push, you tore yourself open, you brought him into the world, into his mother's steady, waiting hands.

"A son, Clarke," Lexa whispers in gentle awe as she places him in your arms, and you don't tease her for the waver in her voice or the wet sheen in her eyes. Not when your eyes are no drier, not when your chest struggles to against the wave of emotions rising, rising within you.

He squirms against you, wailing against your naked chest, and outside you can hear the cheers and the celebrations already beginning. There will be dancing tonight, and drinking, and so much joy to welcome your son into his tribe--his family.

"A son," you repeat, still overwhelmed by the realization that he is here, that he is kicking his wet feet against your belly, that his tiny fingers are clenched around your finger.

Your mother examines him as best she can as he squirms on your chest, but eventually you feel the pains rising again, and look to Lexa.

"Here," your mother says softly, "Heda, why don't we clean your son up while Clarke delivers the afterbirth."

She doesn't reach to take him herself, she's wiser than that. Instead, she watches as your mate lifts your newborn son into her arms again.

"Clarke," Lexa says, and grips your hand tight. But she doesn't need to say the words. You know. You've always known. From the moment she knelt before you in the council chambers, you've known.

You nod, and she smiles, remembering that day, long long ago. When she first pledged her life to yours.

"He'll need a name," you say, grimacing as another contraction ripples through you, and if she responds you don't hear it, too lost in the immediacy of the pain.

But when it's all over, when the afterbirth has been delivered and dealth with, when your mother and your healers have looked him over and declared what you already knew--that he's perfect--as the sun falls and the hounds sing their evening song, you decide.

Lexa kneels next to the bed, watching as your son's tiny mouth finds your nipple and latches on.

"Penn," she suggests quietly, and brushes a finger against his little heel, kicked free from the warm blanket that he's wrapped in.

You let your tongue weigh the word, you whisper it into the air to gauge how it feels in your mouth.

"Penn." There's a firmness to it, an edge. And you love the way it hangs on your lips, the soft whisper of it. How it feels like the beat of a heart--steady and smooth.

It's decided.

Later, in the new morning, aching but so, so proud, so happy and content, you will step out into the busy world of your peoples, introduce your son to the men and women he'll call his own.

But tonight, his first night, he'll sleep in your arms, and you'll sleep in Lexa's.

Just one little family in a great big world.


	3. Just Keep Chasing

The walk is long.

Lonely.

But isn’t that the point?

To remind those on its trail of how alone they are in the world. With neither family nor friend to accompany them on their final journey.

 _Jus drein, jus daun_.

He knows the words better than he knows the sound of his name on his mother’s lips.

What would she say to him now, if she were here. If she were at his side.

Nothing.

If this is his time? 

If this is his day?

He’ll leave this world like he came into it, like he grew up within it.

Alone.

~ * ~

“I have known Roan since he was a boy,” Lexa whispers.

She stands on her balcony, high above your peoples, and looks out over the city. Pinpoints of light mark the ground like stars, and Clarke knows, somewhere beneath them there are lives beginning and lives ending. Somewhere beneath them children gather around a hot cookstove, a drunk stumbles in the street, a young estranged lover dreams of seeing their mate again.

But in the tower, in the bedroom that is Lexa’s in name but theirs in heart, there is no warm meal, no happy laughter or tales of the long day shared around the fire. Here there is the weight of heavy decisions, of lives, of futures that could and shouldn’t be.

Clarke says nothing in response. Just watches. She sees the slump of Lexa’s shoulders under the blanket. She hears the gentle inhale and exhale of Lexa’s breath, how it catches when she shifts, when her bruised and broken ribs move under her skin.

Lexa will turn eventually, when she’s ready. She’ll let the blonde continue to see to her wounds.

But right now, there is something on her mind, some sin she needs to confess. And so Clarke will listen, offer the leader of the twelve–of the thirteen tribes what absolution she can.

“He is Costia’s kin,” Lexa continues, and clarke doesn’t flinch. There is little about this land that takes her by surprise anymore.

“She was among the delegation sent to seek my hand in unity, back when I was first named Commander. A hostage, really. the Azgeda queen’s niece. We sent one in return, of course, and you can imagine, I’m sure, what happened to her.”

Clarke nods. The Azgeda’s reputation precedes them.

“Costia and I became very close,” and clarke can see the way Lexa pulls the blanket tighter around herself, steeling herself for the story she’s going to tell.

“Roan was to be a part of my life at some point, when his mother deemed him ready to lead, but Costia, she was with me every day. We trained together, we ate together, we shared a bed–,” Lexa pauses and Clarke balls her fists, because she knows how this story ends, the bare details of it. She knows it’s something that causes Lexa great pain.

“–and I loved her,” Lexa finishes, her voice honest and strong.

There’s no jealousy that rises in Clarke, no concern. Only sorry, that Lexa’s life has consisted of such tragedy. Just as she knows that the strength of the darker woman’s feelings for Costia in the past doesn’t change the strength of her feelings for Clarke in the present.

She turns then, Lexa does. She turns to look at Clarke and what she sees there gives her the strength to step away from the edge, to step toward the blonde. It’s not pity, it’s not sympathy.

It’s understanding.

It’s not the only thing she wants from Clarke, no, but it is the one thing she needs. For Clarke to understand who she is, what she is.

“Costia took it upon herself to go to the queen, to tell her that we were in love. To ask that the terms be changed. We could still have peace, she tried to tell Nia that there could still be a union and a treaty for peace, but the queen would have none of it. She murdered our hostage–fed her to the mountain lions she keeps as pets, it was reported–and then she tortured Costia until she had what she wanted, until the girl was of no more use.”

She doesn’t remember when she ended up leaning against Clarke, doesn’t remember if she moved into Clarke’s arms, or if Clarke came to her.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because when the tears come–old griefs reopened–it’s Clarke who holds her, who is warm and solid and silent until Lexa is ready to speak again.

“My advisors, they wanted war. And so did I. I marshalled the tribes together and we marched on the Azgeda. And there was a moment, yes, when I had the choice–to destroy Costia’s tribe or not,” she says. “And instead, I chose to make peace. To form the coalition instead. And I have not regretted it, not once.”

“You did a good thing, Lexa,” Clarke whispers, “you brought peace. Costia would be proud of you, proud that you were able to create something so strong. And today, with Roan, you didn’t have a choice. The coalition exists because of you–it’s not ready to survive without you.”

But Lexa shakes her head.

“No,” she whispers, and she cannot look at Clarke, cannot meet her eyes. Because this is the secret she hasn’t yet been able to put to words. “clarke, if it had been you? If Nia had you, there’s nothing that would stop me from killing them all, every last one of the Azgeda, to get you back.”

“Oh.”

Clarke knows the words are true, knows that Lexa means them down to the marrow of her bones.

More, she knows what this confession is, why Lexa needs to tell her.

~ * ~

He stands over his enemy, spear poised to make its mortal cut, and grins.

“Yu donplei ste odon, Lexa,” he spits down at her.

But she just looks up at him, and for the shortest of breaths, her eyes look sad.

He feels it before he sees it, the knife. Feels it slip between his ribs, feels his lung collapse as the sharp edge pierces it.

She catches him as he sinks to his knees, eyes searching out the dais, the throne where he knows his mother will be.

“For Costia,” she says in his ear softly, and when she sinks the knife in further, deeper into his flesh, when the knife bites at his heart, he’s almost certain she means it as a mercy, as forgiveness.

~ * ~

Clarke starts to walk them both over to the large bed, the soft blankets there.

“Come to bed, Lexa,” she coaxes. “Let me take care of your wounds. Tomorrow is a new day, we can start rebuilding your peace in the morning.”

But Lexa resists, as much as she can, struggling against her exhaustion–physical, mental, emotional–to finish telling Clarke what she needs to know.

The blonde, though, doesn’t let go.

“Lexa,” she whispers, feeling the other woman waver in her arms, “I know. You’re not alone anymore, I know.”


	4. Call Her Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Clexa, "Eat your greens"

“Eat your greens,” Lexa said sternly, looking down at the pale, pale blonde laying on the cot in the busy infirmary, holding out a bowl of food to her. But the skygirl just looked up at her, confused, and Lexa wondered whether the heat of her fever had done permanent damage to the other woman’s brain. 

“Your greens,” she said again, shaking the bowl slightly, “you need to regain your strength.”

And then Clarke laughed; it was rough and sounded painful, but it was a laugh.

“Oh,” she rasped, struggling against the weight of her own body to sit up a little more, “greens–even with all the work the hydroponics engineers did to keep our food supply as close to earth as possible, they never quite managed to get things as green as here on earth.”


	5. Handmade in Polis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Clexa, "Would you please stop sharpening that sword and come to bed?"

The Commander stands before the bed, naked and proud, and waits for her mate to join her.

But Clarke doesn’t turn to look; “Lexa, it’s not that simple, Indra said that as your partner it was my duty to act as your handmaid. I’m just doing my job–I’m … handmaidening…”

“Clarke,” Lexa hisses, “that was a joke, you know Indra has a terrible sense of humor. Come to bed.”

The last words are firm to the point of desperation, and this time Clarke does turn to see the beautiful woman waiting for her by the large bed.

She swallows hard and her hand trembles, narrowly missing the tip of the finger guiding the sharpening stone. And in a ridiculous moment of clarity, Lexa realizes that her mate, the fearless Wanheda, is actually torn, looking back and forth helplessly, like she’s not sure what to do.

“But,” Clarke says, “Indra told–”

And though inside she resolves to have a very serious conversation with Indra tomorrow–one that ends with “Quit fucking around with Clarke’s willingness to learn Grounder traditions, Indra!”–externally Lexa only sighs.

“Just hurry up, Clarke, it’s cold and I’m tired.”

And as she slips under the covers to wait again, she hears a small curse.

“And be careful,” she calls out, “I have use of my handmaiden’s hands yet tonight and I don’t want them injured.”

 _Fucking Indra_ , she thinks as she settles in, _fucking Indra._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Literally the closest I'll ever get to writing crack!fic.]


	6. Hey, Hey Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contemporary AU with a side of Doctor Mechanic

She’s such an easy target like this, you can’t resist.

“So, what’d you get my mom for V-Day, Rave,” you ask, standing at the doorway and looking in.

She looks miserable, and kind of murderous as your words sink in. Her hair’s tied back in a loose braid that’s already threatening to fall apart, and the remnants of more than a few failed hobbies lay abandoned about the bed and room.

“Nothing, number one step-daughter, I didn’t get Abby anything. I mean, it’s kind of hard to go out shopping when you’re stuck on bedrest, you asshole,” she grumps at you, and the smile you’re trying so hard not to show almost breaks through.

It doesn’t last long, Raven keeps talking.

“I mean,” she continues, “it’s not like I can repeat last year’s present, when I ordered that strap-on and banged–”

“Fuck, Raven, I’ll stop teasing, I swear, just please don’t finish that sentence.”

The one thing Raven Reyes will always have over you, of course, is the fact that she regularly has sex with your mother.

And you know, you know, she makes your mother very happy. She makes your mother feel alive in a way she hasn’t since your father died.

So when you see the tears gathering, and her breath hitching, you wish in an instant that you could take back the taunt about her not having a present for your mom for Valentine’s Day.

“Hey, Raven, it’s okay. You know Abby doesn’t care about things like that, gifts and stuff. She just loves you. And the baby. All she wants is for you two to be healthy.”

It takes a minute, but Raven’s tears stop, and she wipes at the corners of her eyes with her sleeves.

“I know, it’s just that I feel so useless. I’m huge and I’m stuck here and she’s trying so hard but I had to walk her through putting together the crib–she kept trying to use a flathead instead of looking for the Phillips.”

If you didn’t love her so much, the outright emotion in Raven’s voice would probably make you gag. But you do, and you’re used to it–pregnancy has made the saucy mechanic into something of a sap.

“Hey, what’s this,” you hear your mom say as she comes into the room. “Is Clarke making fun of you again, honey? I told you, she was dropped on her head as a child, more than once.”

And you roll your eyes.

“Is it time,” you ask, turning back to look at her, and thinking–these past few years she’s been so happy, so at peace. And for the most part, that’s because of Raven.

Abby smiles and nods. “Absolutely,” she says, “bring it in, boys.”

And from the hall, Lincoln and Bellamy and Monty muscle in a great, big television, while Lexa follows behind with a toolbox.

“And Lexa,” your mom laughs apologetically, “boys and Lexa.”

But your girl just shrugs.

“What’s all this,” Raven asks, confused because your mom’s _no tvs in the bedroom_ rule is well known by all.

“Well,” Abby answers, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, one hand on Raven’s swollen belly and the other taking the mechanic’s hand in her own, “after Doctor Wexler extended the bedrest order for another few weeks, I figured you could use some entertainment. So Lexa helped me pick out a nice big tv and the guys are here to hang it and set up your video games. Can’t have you going stir crazy up here while I’m at work, after all.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, love,” your mom says quietly, leaning in to kiss her wife’s lips.

And, in an instant, the tears are back.

“Hey, what’s wrong, babe?” Abby asks, but you know. This is kind of all your fault.

“I didn’t get you anything,” Raven manages to sputter out amid the tears.

But your mother has years of practice soothing away fears and tears.

“Honey, we’re having a baby. That’s a pretty amazing gift, don’t you think?”

Raven nods, eyes wet and cheeks red with embarrassment. But none of you will hold this against her. Because honestly, you’re all just happy for them. For their happy ending, hard fought as it has been.

Slowly, the five of you back out of the room, leaving your mom and Raven to their moment. And Lexa grabs your hand and kisses your cheek as you head down the hall to the stairs; you’ve got your own plans for Valentine’s Day, after all.

“That will be us someday,” she whispers into your ear, and her voice sends a frisson of electricity all the way down your spine.

But the moment feels too heavy, too heavy for this sweet day and the fun you have planned. So you do what you do best.

You make light.

“What, grumpy and teary?” you tease.

Lexa smiles at you, soft and sweet and light.

“No,” she says, running a hand down your cheek. “So in love that we throw everything to the wind and take a chance on something as terrifying as having a baby together.”

And maybe you weren’t in love with her yet, not completely. Maybe there was a corner or two of your heart that didn’t yet belong to her. But not anymore. Not after that.

Now you’re hers. Only hers.

And because you can’t form the words, because you can’t feel anything but her hand around yours, you just lean in and kiss her, gentle and soft, on the lips.

“Okay,” she whispers as you pull away, “and maybe the grumpy and teary thing too.”


	7. My Whole World Shook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First laugh.

_You were the brightest shade of sun I had ever seen_  
_Your skin was gilded with the gold of the richest kings_  
_And like the dawn you woke the world inside of me_  
_You were the brightest shade of sun when I saw you_

~ * ~ 

It was a moment that meant nothing.

One of the few short hours they’d been left to themselves, without front lines, without armor, without weapons and war paint.  

“Come,” Lexa had said, and had taken her by the hand, out into the city. Into the living and breathing proof that life and always–would always–go on on the ground. The evidence that the human heart was harder and stronger than any science would have the world believe. 

They walked through the city, along the wide avenues that outlined the market, hustling, bustling, and it reminded Clarke of Thursday afternoons with Wells, just kids then, chasing each other around the tables of repurposed junk on Market Day. There was joy here too, children playing tag around the busy throng of people, and so much to see. Neat mounds of fruit, fabrics in every color she could imagine, tools and toys and remnants of the world her people had long ago left behind. 

There was meat somewhere, grilling on a hot fire under the bright afternoon sun, the tantalizing aroma wafting through an air already full with the scent of perfumes and animals and people. 

For a moment, Clarke was overwhelmed. For a moment, Clarke wanted to cry. 

This– _this_ –is what life was supposed to be. Energy and excitement, everywhere voices that haggled and bartered, that laughed and teased and argued. Over alongside a long table of woven baskets, a young boy, not more than three years younger than herself, pressed a smiling girl back into the brick wall of a building and kissed her gently before pulling back and holding out a small flower. 

A puppy ran into her legs, a group of small children following quickly behind, and a harried voice called out from a few stalls down–a mother with a basket of bread–to _slow down_ , _be careful_ , _watch out for–_

Everything was alive, and Clarke felt something she’d thought she’d lost in the depths of the mountain. 

She felt hope. 

“Here,” Lexa said softly, fingers brushing against the blonde’s arm, “try this.” And she held out an apple, big as her hand, and firm. The color was like none of any Clarke had ever eaten on the Ark, bright and deep, and red like life. And it smelled sweet and somehow tangy, all at once, like the earth and the sun. 

She bit into it, and the flavor exploded over her tongue, nothing like the apples her father would bring home for her on her birth day when she was a child, and delicately cut into little wedges for her small fingers to hold onto, taking care to preserve the precious seeds within. This taste, it was vibrant, it was pure. 

Clarke took another bite and the ripe fruit’s juice dripped down her from her lips, dripped down the gentle curve of her chin, and Lexa looked at her, in soft delight, and laughed. 

Lexa laughed. 

Lexa laughed, and smiled, and reached a hand over to wipe at the sweet and sticky droplets that clung to the divot of the dimple in her chin. 

It was … 

It sounded like … 

There were no words. 

Clarke could not find the words. 

It was quiet, and it was private.

It was a sound as gentle as the brush of a mother’s hand along a sleeping brow. As intimate as a lover’s first, tender kiss. 

Lexa laughed, and for a moment, for one single moment, Clarke’s whole world stopped. Life continued around them, the taste of the apple still lingered on her tongue, but she could not breathe anything but Lexa’s air, could not hear anything but the sound of Lexa’s joyous laughter. 

It sounded light, and free. 

It sounded innocent, and pure. 

It sounded easy, like there’d never been a day when some beautiful thing hadn’t made her smile, made her heart leap, made a laugh tumble over her lips to fill the air with bright and honest hope. 

Lexa laughed, and Clarke felt something inside of her heal, that jagged wound where she’d slipped the knife in-between Finn’s ribs, the sound of rockets tripping through the trees, the rough feel of the lever under her fingertips. 

Lexa laughed and Clarke felt something about the world right itself once more. Shift into place. Rebuild a little of the home she’d torn apart with her own hands. 

Lexa laughed and Clarke realized that this was only the beginning of something that could be extraordinary, the first moment when her heart believed again. In love and life and the beautiful forever after. 

It was only a moment. And it meant nothing. 

It was only a moment. And it meant everything. 

In the aftermath, when all she had were moments left, it was everything. 

And some nights, when she dreams, she dreams of this.

~ * ~ 

_And you will surely be the death of me  
But how could I have known? _


	8. Sail Away With Me Honey

“So, you must really like boats,” the girl says, the one with the long dark hair and eyes the color of the sea in a storm. 

Clarke closes her eyes and stands on the wharf, feeling the spray of saltwater in the breeze as the waves break against the pylons below. 

“I used to,” she answers, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of cargo being unloaded, men working and sweating and swearing. 

And it’s true. She used to love everything about them. The feel of sturdy rope under her hands, the way a whole vessel would move with whims of the current, the waves bobbing them up and down. Her father’s voice in her ear, telling her to lean, to let go, helping her to wrangle the slightest bit of control over the wide, deep ocean. 

But that was before. 

It’s been years now, since she’s set foot in a boat. Since she’s felt the freedom of being lost amid the sun and the water. Since she’s loved the way the water, the boat, deserve to be loved. 

It’s been forever. 

And she’d thought it was okay, to bury that part of herself, of her past. To seal it away the same way she’d done with the memories of her father that hurt too much to keep. 

But lately, there’s an ache in her fingertips, a tickle along her skin. Lately she dreams of rocking in the gentle sea and wakes to find herself trapped on land. 

And this girl, this stranger, it’s like she understands. 

“I’m Lexa,” the girl says, and points toward a ship docked at the neighboring pier, “and that’s my boat there, the _Heda_. We’re here every morning by six. I’ve seen you watching–if you want to come out with us one day, just say the word. The crew is pretty rough but only with each other.”

Maybe any other day, it’d be the wrong thing to say. But today, standing next to this stranger who feels so familiar, Clarke feels something, a floodgate opening. 

And she’s not ready, not today. 

But she might be tomorrow. 

“Don’t forget,” the girl–Lexa–says, walking down the ramp, “anytime.”


	9. Learn to Pace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Octaven ficlet

“That feels so good,” Raven said, trying to keep from crying out, head lolling around on her shoulders. 

“Is it too much,” Octavia asked from below, from where she knelt over Raven’s bum leg. “You have to let me know when it’s too much.”

But Raven shook her head. “No, no,” she choked out, “keep going. It feels–it feels good.”

Octavia dug her fingertips back into the damaged muscle, working out the knots, the kinks there. “Okay, but like I said, you have to let me know. If we rush through your PT you’ll just end up hurting yourself worse.”

“Is that what we’re doing,” Raven asked, lips curved into a lazy grin, “physical therapy?”

And Octavia grins back. “Aren’t you lucky your girlfriend’s the hottest PT in town?” 

She hits a particular sensitive spot, and Raven’s only answer is a moan. 


	10. Just a Lie of the Heart

“Don’t trust me.” 

It’s the first thing she wants to say. 

“Don’t trust me.” 

“Don’t follow me. Or fall for me.”

“Don’t love me.”

She wants to warn Clarke, betrayal is inevitable. It’s in her blood, it is her blood. It’s what she was created to do. Betray those she loves. The children she was raised with. Those who threaten the lives of the people she swears her heart to, her life. 

“Don’t trust me.”

The words are there, just on the tip of her lips. 

But she can’t say them. She can’t force them out of her mouth. 

Clarke accuses her, Clarke challenges her, Clarke presses her back into the war table, backs the Commander of the 12 Tribes into a corner and makes her want, makes her keen with wanting, and still, she cannot say it. 

Not to save Clarke.

Not to save herself.

This, this is the biggest betrayal of all. 


End file.
